Magic Sparkle Bubble Kiss

I read about a rich couple who bought an oceanfront property. The shells on their beach were boring, so they had a servant go out to place dazzling specimens along their daily route. Their children would thrill to find them on their afternoon stroll.

Ridiculous. But I confess, I understand a mother’s desire to see her babies happy. It’s a desire hardwired to her heart.

I imagined that I had the power to rig the outside world so that my kid might find unexpected treasures in surprising places. But instead of mother-of-pearl or conch, I’d seed Parker's path with kind words and smiles, because she is often the recipient of the opposite.

The fall Parker started grade nine, a latticework of scratches appeared on her left forearm one day. It was a self-inflicted crisscross pattern embellished with swirls and letters: FU. When I asked her about it, she shrugged it off then gave me a glimpse of deeper cuts hidden beneath T-shirt sleeves: horizontal scars that had turned white, surrounded by fresher cuts, red as raw meat.

The sight hit me like a bolt of emotional lightning. The next day I made an appointment with our doctor, who prescribed ointment for her and that was all.

October brought trees in shades of honey and fire. Bandaid wrappers littered Parker’s bedroom floor, casual as fallen leaves. From the wastebasket I picked up a discarded bandage and stared at the line of blood that marked the gauze and extended onto the sticky parts. It seemed an encrypted message meant specially for me.

But I didn’t know how to decipher it.

Vermillion lips kissed my cheek, emerald eyelids closed on a glistening tear, and I hadn’t guessed it was anything more than a fashion statement. I'd thought that Parker's makeup was Bowie-inspired. Parker was still living in her birth assigned gender then, still using those birth assigned pronouns, still wearing only T-shirts and jeans.

On a grey day, I sat in the fluorescent-lit office of the school's social worker. She informed me that November is when sadness overtakes many high school students. “Honeymoon’s over. Hard work begins. Dull days of winter.” She talked in bullet points and appeared to be too self-involved to really care about my fourteen-year-old’s troubles. She handed me a book about cutting that I leafed through while she talked. It had cartoony illustrations and a prayer on the back.

Proudly, she informed me that when the stress gets too much for her students, she tells them: “Breathe deep. Think positive. Go for a walk.”

Parker has followed at least one of her bullet points. With highest stress times occurring during school hours, my complicated child regularly takes walks instead of going to class. As a result, I get phone calls in the evening, a recorded voice telling me what I already know: “The following student was absent today...”

Parker started a new school in the new year at Canada’s only LGBTQ+ high school (remarkably just down the road from us), an alternative school devoted to letting the uniqueness of each student shine through, like snowflakes illuminated by winter sun-rays.

On her first day, she wore her very first dress in public, a lime-green frock that set off her ginger curls. I watched from my window as with every swish of the hem about her legs she stepped more wholly into who she really was and always had been.

I watched her until this vulnerable wisp of youthful innocence disappeared into the snowy distance. Right then and there I invented the Magic Sparkle Bubble Kiss: a kiss blown at someone that surrounds them with a bubble of golden light or silver sparkles or whatever else you imagine representing love and protection.

I have sent many such kisses her way since that first day. And I understood early on that kisses alone would not protect her. Magic doesn't happen all by itself or with a few sparkly incantations or hopeful prayers.

So, by spring, I was weilding my pen in aid of the cause. It would be the first of many writings devoted to shedding light on the issues faced by Parker and her community -

Dear Neighbour:

My daughter’s name is Parker. That’s her name. Her name is not some transphobic slur you choose to yell as she walks by your house on her way to school.

You will not be seeing her these days, as she has refused to come out of her room since some particularly nasty taunts you slung from your porch. Was that your intention? That she not venture out into the world, not go to school, not enjoy the sights and sounds and fragrances of the world as you do?

If so, then I have to wonder why. She isn’t hurting you or anyone else by being her authentic self. But you are hurting her. Do a little research to understand the full impact you and other haters have on trans folks. And if you’re at all curious as to what can change some of those dismal statistics: it is acceptance.

Signed,

The Mother of a Girl Named Parker.

Awake in the wee hours with our cat to keep me company I took up my pen to compose a list: “Things to Help Parker Flourish”. For it seemed we were living in a world that didn't want her to blossom like other kids her age. But, aside from my love and support, nothing I listed was affordable - not a piano, not a studio, not the private island where we could live away from hate.

Then, our next door neighbour gave us a keyboard he no longer wanted. Soon after, a friend of a friend gave us a dog she could no longer keep. Music and puppies are guaranteed to encourage flourishing and loving and grounding.

Encouraged by this show of generosity, I went looking for and found a neglected storage room in our apartment building. I got permission to turn it into a studio where Parker and her friends (and others) could play music.

When Parker ventured out of her room to go back to school, she told me that the slur-slinging neighbour was no longer on her stoop as she'd pass. Maybe it was the weather that kept her indoors or some other reason, but I couldn’t help wondering if my letter had brought about that change.

That thought led to the birth of a newsletter, a wholly positive publication with LGBTQ+ info, tips, resources. Presented with an intent to foster understanding, I began my first edition with this editorial:

“To understand you have to go beyond a desire to have the world’s complexities explained to you in a paint-by-numbers way. There is no understanding-by-numbers with some things, in fact, most things. Don’t think too hard about why transgender people are transgender. Trans people are, just as cisgender people are. Just as we all are. Don’t jump to conclusions, rather take a leap of faith. Facilitate that leap by listening to trans folk, reading their books and blogs, watching their youtube testimonies.”

I called this little sheet the "Magic Sparkle Bubble Kiss". The first edition included a Glossary of Terms from GLAAD, a Guide to Being an Ally, an ISO for a drum kit for our studio, a list of trans people in history and a link to Lana Wachowski’s amazing HRC speech.

The newsletter concluded with this quote by Langston Hughes: “Help me to shatter this darkness, to smash this night, to break this shadow, into a thousand lights of sun, into a thousand whirling dreams of sun!”

Parker began to thrive and excel in her music and studies. She entered into a relationship with a loving partner and she got a parttime job. We stopped buying Bandaids and we rejoiced when Bill C-16 was passed, giving Gender Identity protection under the Human Rights Code.

Yet, with anti-trans hatred on the rise, Parker continues to lead a guarded life, with some days spent in despair. And I am constantly reminded to keep fighting the good fight - until we shatter this darkness into a thousand lights of sun.

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Thank you for reading!